The posters were faded and few in numbers, each one had the corners torn or dog-eared. While the furniture was a miss-match of hand-me-downs; each piece seemed torn, scarred, scuffed or defaced and cluttered with books, papers and odd trinkets collected on trips away or given as a gift from someone special. Each one had seen better days. An old grey TV was laced with thick dust on the top, it was smaller and bulkier than the latest models and it crackled with white noise. Perched on a battered mattress which rested on the floor was a young girl. She had long black hair that hid her hazel eyes while her bony figure huddled under her damp clothes, she curled up into a foetal position crying quietly. Beside her lay a black lamp plugged into the wall, it laid waiting for the night to seep in when the shouting would seize and the darkness would reign. The girl lay listening to a swarm of anger that exploded beneath. She recognised the voices and waited until she was plucked from the room where so many nightmares were created. To somewhere, where she'd have to explain herself; take the blame for something out her control; like it was her fault that there was a thunderstorm. She hoped and she prayed for the lies to stop. Maybe this night, she prayed, the nightmares will stop.

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